“Aurien, by the Good Counsellor,” Denizard said, sounding as startled as the trader, and Caiazzo laughed again.

“A half month early, thank Bonfortune, and heavy laden. We’ll meet him, Aice, see what he’s brought me. You, Eslingen–” He turned to face his knife, his whole expression suddenly alive and excited. “Go to my counting house–do you know where it is? Tailors’ Row, by the Red Style–tell Siramy and Noan to meet me at the wharf. Then–” he grinned, gestured expansively, “take the afternoon off.”

“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and the trader hurried toward the waiting boat.

Eslingen watched him go, suddenly aware that he had been left on his own at the edges of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and then, impatient, shook the thought away. The Tailors’ Row was well clear of the Court, back toward Point of Sighs; he lifted a hand to the boat, saw Denizard wave in return, and then turned west toward the Tailors’ Row.

It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, a narrow, three‑story building tucked between two much larger warehouses. He delivered his message to a clerk and then to Siramy herself, watching her expression change from uncertainty to a delight that hid–relief? He couldn’t be sure, and hid his own misgivings behind an impassive face. Caiazzo was definitely short of coin, that much was obvious, but why and what it meant was anybody’s guess–except that it probably meant that the longdistance trader was not involved with the missing children. Rathe had been right about one thing: Caiazzo didn’t get involved with anything that didn’t promise a hefty profit, and this venture with the old woman, whatever it was, had certainly been intended to provide decent funds. Except, of course, that it had clearly gone wrong. Eslingen sighed, wondering if he should use his unexpected freedom to find Rathe and let the pointsman know what had happened. There would be less risk now than any other time, but he found himself suddenly reluctant to betray Caiazzo’s interests. The man was having enough troubles; the last thing Eslingen wanted to do was to add to them. The two factors–and a harassed‑looking clerk, arms filled with tablets and a bound ledger–hurried past him toward the river, and Eslingen turned toward the Rivermarket. Whatever else he did, whether he contacted Rathe or not, he did have to buy some new shirts. He could make his decision after he’d searched the market for something decent.

The Rivermarket was less crowded than it had been the other times he’d ventured into its confines. Probably most people were shopping at the Midsummer Fair, he thought, and hoped that would mean he would be able to strike a few bargains with the secondhand clothes dealers. There was a woman who claimed contacts at the queen’s court, who swore that she had the pickings of the landames’ cast‑offs, and he threaded his way through the confusion until he found her stall. The clothes, some good, some much‑mended or threadbare, good only for a seamstress to take a pattern from it, were piled every which way on a crude trestle table, watched by the woman and a beetle‑browed man whose knife was easily at the legal limit. He was dividing his attention between the stock and a thin girl a little younger than apprentice‑age, and Eslingen wondered just which one he’d been hired to watch. The man saw him looking, and frowned; Eslingen met the stare with a bland smile, and began sorting through the piled clothes, pulling out shirts. Most were too worn to be of use, though one still had a modest band of lace at the collar and cuffs, and he set that one aside to examine more closely later. The lace was good quality; maybe, he thought, he could pick it loose and find a seamstress to attach it to a different garment. He dug deeper into the pile, found another shirt that looked almost new, and spread it out to check for damage. The linen was barely worn, the only sign of its provenance a ripped hem–and that, he thought, holding it up to gauge the size, he could even mend himself. It would be large, but not unwearable, and he bundled it with the other, bracing himself to haggle.

“Eslingen!”

It was Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen turned, not knowing whether he was glad or sorry that the decision was taken out of his hands. The pointsman had abandoned his jerkin and truncheon, was wearing a plain half‑coat open over shirt and trousers, and he carried a basket loaded with what looked like the makings of a decent dinner. Eslingen blinked at that–he had somehow assumed that Rathe would have someone to do his housekeeping–and nodded a greeting. “Rathe.”

“I hope you’re doing well in your new employment,” Rathe went on, the grey green eyes sweeping over the other man’s clothes and the shirts he held in his hands.

“Well enough,” Eslingen answered, and took a deep breath as the stall‑keeper moved toward them. “I need to talk to you, if you’ve got the time.”

Rathe nodded, without surprise. “Always. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m not sure that would be fully politic,” Eslingen said, grimly, and Rathe grinned.

“Maybe not, at that. New clothes?”

Eslingen nodded, and the stall‑keeper said, “Those are from Her Majesty’s own court, good clothes that’ll stand a second owner. And they don’t come cheap.”

Eslingen took a breath, irritated by the assumption, and Rathe said, “From Her Majesty’s court, maybe, but by way of the other Court.” He looked at Eslingen. “You wouldn’t credit the trouble we have with laundry thieves.”

Eslingen grinned, and the woman said, “That’s not true, or fair, I get my goods legitimately and you know it.”

“And charge court prices for clothes you bought from northriver merchants,” Rathe answered.

It seemed to be a standing argument. Eslingen said hastily, “How much?”

The woman darted a look at Rathe, then resolutely turned her shoulder to him. “A snake and two seillings–and the lace alone is worth that much.”

It probably was, Eslingen admitted, but pretended to study the shirts a second time.

The woman crossed her arms. “That’s my only price, Leaguer. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Eslingen said, and fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coins. The woman took them, and Eslingen folded the shirts into a relatively discreet package. “Shall we?”

Rathe nodded. “Where are you bound?”

“I hadn’t decided. I was told to take the afternoon off.”

“You should see the fair, then,” Rathe answered.

“Actually, I had some business at Temple Fair,” Eslingen said. “I’d like to see what the latest word is on the clocks.”

“Bad, that.”

“And what do the points say it was?” Eslingen asked.

“The same as the university,” Rathe answered. “I’ll walk you to the Hopes‑point Bridge.”

“Good enough,” Eslingen said, accepting the rebuff.

They made their way through the market and climbed the gentle slope to the Factors’ Walk in a surprisingly companionable silence. At the base of the bridge, the Factors’ Walk ended in a paved square where the low‑flyers gathered between fares. In the summer heat, the air smelled richly of manure and the sour tang of old feed, but the fountain and trough at the center of the space was surprisingly clean. Eslingen paused to scoop up a drink in his cupped hands, disdaining the cup chained above the spigot, and Rathe said, “So. You wanted to talk to me, you said.”

Eslingen stopped himself from glancing around–there would have been nothing more suspicious–and shook the water from his palms. “Yes. I suppose so, anyway.”

He stopped there, not knowing where to begin, and Rathe said, “Anything on the children?”

“No. And I doubt there will be.” Eslingen hesitated, resettling the shirts under his arm. “Caiazzo’s having troubles, yes, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the children–the opposite, in fact.” Quickly, he went through the events of the past few days, from the caravan‑master’s visit to the meeting with the old woman to Caiazzo’s relief at the arrival of the ship. “It seems to me,” he finished, “that if Caiazzo was involved in all this, he’d have money in hand, not be seeking it.”